by Carla J Gade
“The Lord has a grand design for your life,” Mum would say, “be faithful to trust His handiwork, even when the pattern isn’t clear.” Honour had tried to make sense of her lot, a situation greatly altered from the hopes she and her family had for life in New England. But, try as she might to find a new pattern emerging, she found it not.
She went to retrieve her tiny scissors from her workbag only to remember that it remained lost. She had to rely on borrowed items for her quilting until she found it, hoping that she would not need to purchase a replacement. Yet, though the bag was lost, as sentimental as her attachment to it was, Honour was grateful that her skill remained and enabled her to provide for herself and her sister.
“May I borrow your small scissors, please?” Honour asked Mrs. Wadsworth’s apprentice.
“Surely, but have you not your own supplies?” Maisey handed the scissors to Honour.
Honour took a snip of some batting. “I misplaced my workbag the other day and have not yet discovered where it is.”
“The pretty one your mother gave you, with the small compartments?” Maisey asked.
“Aye. I hope I shall find it soon.” Honour frowned and set to more stuffwork.
“I hope you shall. Mrs. Wadsworth is keen on her workers being responsible for their own equipment. She is anxious enough being absent from her own shop. I’m sure she appreciates the Sutton’s kindness, but she cannot afford to lose customers while away.”
“I will continue to search. ’Tis very dear to me.”
“I do not mind being here myself, near the handsome Sutton men, especially Joshua.” Maisey gave a sassy grin.
As Honour placed the scissors on the table she raised her eyebrows, tempting Maisey to continue.
“Word is that Joshua Sutton is now an available bachelor. He was attached to Emily Guilfold for years, but she unexpectedly married another man.” Maisey leaned closer and whispered, “By special license.”
“I had not heard. I know little of the Suttons.” But Honour knew enough of Joshua to realize he was kind-hearted. Was that heart now broken for love lost? Although, when she had shared her thoughts with him on the topic, he had not responded in kind. Would she ever have a chance to meet with him again? Perhaps he was merely extending compassion to her as a distraction to the pain he now bore from his ended betrothal.
“To be sure, the girls in this town will be lining up to have him measure their gowns, rather than letting Mrs. Wadsworth drape them for a proper mantua,” Maisey said.
Honour’s eyes widened at Maisey’s vulgar insinuation.
“Moreover,” Maisey whispered, “He was seen carrying one woman through town the other day, and kissing another in a carriage the next.” Maisey turned the sleeve she was working on right side out and smoothed out the wrinkles. “At least someone is garnering his attention . . . or shall I say affections.”
Honour chided herself for paying heed to her coworker’s ramblings, eager though she was to learn more about Joshua Sutton. But what she did not expect was to hear herself included in the account—or so she thought—even if it was incorrect. A nervous chuckle burst forth.
“’Tis no laughing matter. This is the biggest news since the British occupied the city last October!” Maisey clucked her tongue. “If we cannot have him for ourselves, at least we might get an occasional gander at his handsome face while we’re here. Perhaps you might like to go downstairs and borrow his scissors next time. I’d be happy to do the asking for you.” Maisey broke into throaty giggles, but stifled them when she looked up to see Mrs. Wadsworth sauntering toward them with decisive steps.
“Maisey, I will not abide your prattle, even if you speak a truth. Although, I must say, I have misgivings about the content of your report. I do not know where you come by such news, though I do have my suspicions, Miss Hubert.”
Mrs. Wadsworth turned to Honour and winked. “Do not believe a thing she says, Honour.”
Now Honour knew why Mrs. Wadsworth was not forthcoming when Maisey asked how they had fared during the storm when she’d been away. There was enough to tell her regarding the damage to the shop and Honour getting caught in the storm, but any further detail involving Joshua Sutton was best left unsaid to the gossip-prone worker.
“I will not have you repeating any of that heresy, Maisey Hubert, or I shall be fitting you for a gossip’s bridle.”
“There is no need of the brank for me. I’ll speak no more of it. But you cannot stop me from dreaming.” Maisey patted her chest, feigning a lovelorn heart.
“Allow me to remind you both,” Mrs. Wadsworth continued, “as workers in my shop you may have the occasion of hearing reports and opinions shared by some of my patrons. What you may hear is to remain strictly confidential.” Mrs. Wadsworth tapped Maisey lightly on the head with her thimble. “I will not have gossipmongers coming from my place of business.”
Honour nodded. “You may count on me, Mrs. Wadsworth.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Maisey answered, inflecting exaggerated amiability. “Though I see no harm in keeping it within our walls. It helps pass the time.”
Mrs. Wadsworth shook her head and uttered a long sigh. “You may pass the time with the tasks I pay you to do. If you wish to manage your own business someday, you would be wise to learn proper decorum. Sharing falsehoods tends to harm the one doing the sharing as much as it does the subject.”
“I shall make an effort,” Maisey pledged.
To what? Comply with Mrs. Wadsworth’s wishes? Continue spreading rumors? Despite Honour’s attempts at friendship with her fellow worker, the discomfiture she felt at Maisey’s impertinence was just another awkward stitch in the quilt of Honour’s inability to truly trust her.
“How are you girls coming along on Widow Lankton’s quilted traveling suit?” Mrs. Wadsworth patted the edges of her coiffure beneath her linen cap. She adjusted her work apron and stepped closer to peruse Honour’s and Maisey’s handwork.
“I am putting in my last stitch now,” Maisey said, tying a final knot. “There. It is done!”
“Hold it up dear and let me see,” Mrs. Wadsworth said eagerly.
Maisey held up the top portion of the gown, a glimmer of pride on her rounded cheeks.
“It is lovely.” Honour admired the quilted caraco jacket. The partially open front, from waist to thigh, would display the petticoat worn as its companion, now sitting in Honour’s lap as she worked on the coordinating piece.
Mrs. Wadsworth carefully retrieved the garment from Maisey’s grasp and walked toward the light of the window. She inspected every stitch through a small magnifying lens as she uttered a variety of hmms, ahhs, and mm-mms. “Maisey, if you intend for the sleeves to stay attached to this gown, you must pay heed to a smaller stitch, particularly around the shoulders. We must ensure the quilting shan’t unravel. Please redo the sleeves.”
Mrs. Wadsworth handed the jacket back to a pouting Maisey and turned her scrutinizing eye toward Honour. “How are we coming along with the quilting for the petticoat?”
Honour pulled a waxed strand of satin thread through the fabric draped over her lap. “I am nearing completion. The border has a few more pattern repetitions, and then it will be ready for Maisey’s fine hand to assemble and sew the petticoat.” Honour glanced at Maisey and offered her an encouraging smile.
“May I?” Mrs. Wadsworth asked with open hands.
Honour relinquished her work to her employer, who laid the length of quilted cloth out on a large worktable.
Mrs. Wadsworth leaned over, examining the meticulously stitched quilt. This had been one of Honour’s most extravagant pieces yet. The border of the cloth showed frond and scroll work betwixt a floral pattern, this being more elaborate than the rest of the quilting with a repetition of geometrical designs. Honour’s heart fluttered as she awaited the verdict.
“The motif is gorgeous, and your needlework is outstanding. You have an exceptional skill, Honour Metcalf.”
After having spent months on its quilti
ng, Honour sighed with great relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Wadsworth. I do hope Widow Lankton will be pleased at our handiwork.”
Mrs. Wadsworth glanced back at Maisey. “Let us hope that Widow Lankton will approve of the finished product.”
A tap, tap, tap sounded at the door. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Mrs. Wadsworth turned and greeted the silver-haired woman, with coiffure high upon her brow, entering the room. “Good morning, Mrs. Sutton. How nice of you to come by.”
“Do you find your new accommodations satisfactory?” Mrs. Sutton asked, approaching the worktable.
“Indeed we do. The room is more than adequate for our needs and provides a generous amount of lighting,” Mrs. Wadsworth said.
“Very good.” Mrs. Sutton looked at the table displaying Honour’s handiwork and let out a gasp. “What have we here?”
“This is quilting for Widow Lankton’s new traveling suit,” Mrs. Wadsworth said.
“It is stunning, Eunice will look lovely in it. This quilted pattern is beautiful, I have never seen anything to compare. So much nicer than machine-loomed quilted material they are making in Marseilles, France now. Though some prefer it, I do not.”
Mrs. Wadsworth nodded. “I must agree with you, Olive.”
“But it is neither here nor there, and literally not here while we have the embargo in place.” Mrs. Sutton placed the back of her hand against her forehead. “I’d best leave that topic alone, although it does present the opportunity to tell you, Margaret, the next Daughters of Liberty meeting will be held at my home in a fortnight.” Mrs. Sutton looked at Maisey and Honour. “You girls are welcome to join us.”
Mrs. Sutton eyed Honour with curiosity. “I do not think I have had the privilege of making your acquaintance.”
“This is Miss Honour Metcalf, of late from England. She is my new quilter,” Mrs. Wadsworth said. “And the talent behind this quilt.” She smoothed her palm over the calamanco.
“Talented, indeed. Mayhap Sutton’s can contract you to quilt some of the children’s and gentlemen’s garments we make—if you could use the extra work.” Mrs. Sutton eyed Mrs. Wadsworth. “With your permission, of course, Margaret.”
“I think we might arrange something,” Mrs. Wadsworth said.
Honour smiled at Mrs. Wadsworth and then addressed Mrs. Sutton. “I would be happy to consider it, madam. Thank you.”
Mrs. Sutton planted her hand against her cheek, perusing Honour. “You have made quite an impression on my Joshua. Now, I see why. Talented, pretty, and kind.”
A warm blush rose in Honour’s face, and she lowered her lashes.
“Did you enjoy the ride in our coach the other morning when Joshua drove you home from the parsonage after your unfortunate incident?” Mrs. Sutton continued.
Honour looked at her and smiled. “Aye. It is a lovely carriage and the ride was most pleasant. Thank you for your kindness.”
Mrs. Sutton tilted her chin, beckoning her to say more.
“And Mr. Sutton.”
“I have three Mr. Suttons, my dear. Please call him Joshua or I shall be utterly confused.”
“Would you thank him—Joshua—again for me please.” Heat rose beneath the modesty piece tucked into Honour’s upper bodice.
“Certainly. We are happy to know you are all right.”
Honour dared glance at Maisey and shrugged.
Maisey’s eyes big as saucers, she mouthed, “Josh-u-a?”
Mmm, yes, Joshua . . . his Christian name. And he had called her Honour.
Hopefully, Maisey would abide by Mrs. Wadsworth’s rule of confidentiality and not let rumors take flight—like Ben Franklin’s electrically charged kite—it was Honour Metcalf who had recently been found in the company of the bachelor Joshua Sutton.
This is where I found Honour huddled in the street. I am sure of it. Joshua had already scoured each side of Marlborough Street the other day and now was at it once more. He walked over the cobblestones on the side of the road, looking over and under fences, behind watering troughs, between buildings, underneath steps . . . ah, he missed this one. He bent down and looked behind the wig-maker’s porch, finding nothing but dead leaves and a small porcelain curling rod which looked like an old bone. Joshua stood and kicked the bottom step and groaned.
The low tone of Reverend Cooper’s voice met Joshua’s ears. “Are you missing something, Mr. Sutton?”
Joshua spun around, surprised to see the parson there. “Good day, Reverend Cooper.”
“Is it?” the clergyman asked.
“Hmmph. I am not certain. What I am looking for is like trying to find a bodkin in a bundle of straw.”
“Our omnipotent God knows where it is. Have you inquired of Him?” the reverend asked.
“No, sir, I cannot say that I have. Does He care for the trivial things in our lives when He has much weightier matters to concern Him?”
“His concern is for you, son. Moreover, your lost article, which is important to you.”
“It is important to a friend, and thus to me. The item was lost during the hailstorm. I believe it may have fallen into the street, but by now, everything has been cleared away. I fear it is lost forever.”
“Should you like to tell me what it is, I will be happy to help you find it.”
“I am searching for Miss Metcalf’s embroidered work satchel.”
“Ah, then, we are making progress.”
“Are we?”
The reverend shuffled over to a nearby bench and patted the seat beside him. “Sit.”
Joshua sat beside the clergyman, who today wore his black parson’s frock. How peculiar he seemed at times, but always generous, strangely insightful, and naturally pious.
“Tell me, how is the young lady? Better, I trust.”
“I do hope so, though I have not seen her since I took her home from your manse a few days ago.”
“I see.”
What did he see?
Reverend Cooper peered from beneath his wiry eyebrows. “God is in the business of finding lost things. Coins, sheep, His beloved children.”
The man apparently sensed that Joshua was looking for more than Honour’s bag.
“Dear Lord, we beseech Thee to aid us in locating Miss Metcalf’s workbag. We seek Thy direction and ask for the item’s safekeeping until it is discovered. Please care for Miss Metcalf according to Thy will. Bless this young man as he endeavors to become more like Thee. Amen.”
Joshua echoed, “Amen.” Methinks.
“Well, then. I shall be on my way. I have an appointment to keep. Be sure to let me know how it turns out.” The clergyman stood and ambled away.
“Good day, sir. Thank you.” Joshua scratched his head, bewildered at the reverend’s classification of help, and pondered the duplicitous meaning in his sermonizing prayer.
Then the soft, melodic voice of another caught his attention. “Why, Mr. Sutton. How good it is to see you.”
Joshua turned and beheld Honour, paused along the walkway behind the bench. How strange she should appear at precisely this moment. “Miss Metcalf, what a pleasant circumstance. How do you fare? You are looking lovely.” Lovely, indeed, in a gown of green and peach striped calico, showing off the beautiful light of her fair skin and dark auburn hair spiraling onto her shoulder, beneath her straw Bergère hat.
“I am much improved, thank you,” she said, her eyes smiling as she talked. “I intended to thank you for your kindnesses the other day, but before I had the chance you had disappeared from Mrs. Wadsworth’s shop.”
“I thought it best to leave quietly while you were enjoying being reacquainted with your sister. She is an adorable thing, isn’t she?”
“She is. The little imp.” Honour giggled.
“Temperance is her name?”
“Aye, it is. In fact, I am on my way to fetch her from Mistress Hollister’s dame school. After doing so, I shall continue my search for my workbag by inquiring within some of these shops along this side of the road. I scouted the oppos
ite side yesterday and found nothing.”
“I have also been looking, to no avail. Yet, I have it on good word it shall turn up soon.”
Honour tilted her chin. “Do you? Whose word might that be?”
“The Almighty’s.”
“He informed you of its whereabouts?” Honour asked.
“Not exactly, but Reverend Cooper assures me God is interested in this matter,” Joshua said.
Honour made several attempts to speak, though nothing came out. At last, a word erupted. “Really?”
Joshua shrugged. “It is what the man said.”
“I take it that you believe him.” Honour smirked and dimples on each side of her pretty mouth blossomed.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Joshua asked. Had she no faith or was she jesting?
“You children, skedaddle! I shan’t be having urchins with dirty hands touching my merchandise. Go on now!” The shrill voice of the keeper of Carter’s Millinery rose above the normal din of passing wagons, carriages, an occasional horse, and a bustle of people walking by.
“Now there is one place I have not looked.” Honour consulted the small watch pinned to her bodice. “I may have time for a quick stop before I continue on my way.”
“May I join you?” Joshua asked.
Miss Metcalf hesitated for a moment, and smiled. “Certainly, Mr. Sutton.”
Joshua offered Honour his arm as they crossed the street together. “How are you finding the conditions for working in my father’s building? Is the space ample?”
“It exceeds our requirements and provides a great measure of light to sew by. How generous it was of your family to accommodate Mrs. Wadsworth’s need.” Honour looked straight ahead. Did she feel awkward about being seen with him?